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Copyright,  1892,  by  MARY  FRENCH  FIELD. 


MANHATTAN  PRESS 

474  W.  BROADWAY 

NEW  YORK 


This  volume  is  made  up  of  verse  compiled  from  my 
"  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse,"  my  "  Second  Book  of 
Verse,"  and  the  files  of  the  "  Chicago  Daily  News,"  the 
"  Youth's  Companion,"  and  the  "  Ladies'  Home  Journal." 

E.F. 

CHICAGO,  October  25,  1892. 


WITH    TRUMPET  ^ND   T>RUM 

With  big  tin  trumpet  and  little  red  drum, 
Marching  like  soldiers,  the  children  come! 

It  'j  this  way  and  that  -way  they  circle  and  file — 

My  !  but  that  mttsic  of  theirs  is  fine  ! 
This  way  and  that  way,  and  after  a  while 

They  march  straight  into  this  heart  of  mine! 
A  sturdy  old  heart,  but  it  has  to  succumb 
To  the  blare  of  that  trumpet  and  beat  of  that  drum  ! 

Come  on,  little  people,  from  cot  and  from  hall  — 
This  heart  it  hath  welcome  and  room  for  you  all! 
It  will  sing  you  its  songs  and  warm  you  with  love, 
As  your  dear  little  arms  with  my  arms  intertwine ; 
It  will  rock  you  away  to  the  dreamland  above  — 
Oh,  a  jolly  old  heart  is  this  old  heart  of  mine, 
And  jollier  still  is  it  bound  to  become 
When  you  blow  that  big  trumpet  and  beat  that  red  drum! 

So  come  ;  though  I  see  not  his  dear  little  face 

And  hear  not  his  voice  in  this  jubilant  place, 

I  know  he  were  happy  to  bid  me  enshrine 

His  memory  deep  in  my  heart  with  your  play  — 
Ah  me !  but  a  love  that  is  sweeter  than  mine 

Holdeth  my  boy  in  its  keeping  to-day  / 
And  my  heart  it  is  lonely  —  so,  little  folk,  come, 
March  in  and  make  merry  with  trumpet  and  drum! 

EUGENE  FIELD. 
Chicago,  September  13,  1892. 


PAGE 

THE  SUGAR-PLUM  TREE i 

KRINKEN 4 

NAUGHTY  DOLL 7 

NIGHTFALL  IN  DORDRECHT 10 

IXTRY-MlNTRY 12 

PlTTYPAT  AND  TlPPYTOE 15 

BALOW,  MY  BONNIE 18 

THE  HAWTHORNE  CHILDREN 20 

LITTLE  BLUE  PIGEON  (Japanese  Lullaby) 24 

THE  LYTTEL  BOY 26 

TEENY-WEENY 28 

NELLIE 31 

NORSE  LULLABY 33 

GRANDMA'S  PRAYER 35 

SOME  TIME 36 

THE  FIRE-HANGBIRD'S  NEST 38 

BUTTERCUP,  POPPY,  FORGET-ME-NOT 44 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN,  AND  NOD  (Dutch  Lullaby) ...  46 

GOLD  AND  LOVE  FOR  DEARIE 49 

THE  PEACE  OF  CHRISTMAS-TIME 51 

To  A  LITTLE  BROOK 54 

CROODLIN'  Doo* 58 

LITTLE  MISTRESS  SANS-MERCI 60 

LONG  AGO 62 

IN  THE  FIRELIGHT ._ .  64 

COBBLER  AND  STORK  (Armenian  Folk-Lore) 66 

"  LOLLYBY,  LOLLY,  LOLLYBY  " 70 

LIZZIE  AND  THE  BABY 72 

AT  THE  DOOR 74 

HUGO'S  "  CHILD  AT  PLAY  " 76 

HI-SPY 77 

LITTLE  BOY  BLUE 78 

FATHER'S  LETTER 80 

JEWISH  LULLABY 86 

OUR  WHIPPINGS 88 

THE  ARMENIAN  MOTHER  (Folk-Song) 93 

HEIGHO,  MY  DEARIE 95 

To  A  USURPER 97 

THE  BELL-FLOWER  TREE 99 

FAIRY  AND  CHILD 102 

THE  GRANDSIRE 104 

HUSHABY,  SWEET  MY  OWN 106 

*  Cooing  Dove. 


CONTENTS  xl 

PAGE 

CHILD  AND  MOTHER 108 

MEDIEVAL  EVENTIDE  SONG no 

ARMENIAN  LULLABY 1 13 

y    CHRISTMAS  TREASURES 115 

OH,  LITTLE  CHILD 1 18 

GANDERFEATHER'S  GIFT 120 

BAMBINO  (Sicilian  Folk-Song) 123 

LITTLE  HOMER'S  SLATE 125 


THE   SUGAR-PLUM    TREE  3 

So  come,  little  child,  cuddle  closer  to  me 
In  your  dainty  white  nightcap  and  gown, 

And  I  '11  rock  you  away  to   that  Sugar-Plum 

Tree 
In  the  garden  of  Shut-Eye  Town. 


KRINKEN 

KRINKEN  was  a  little  child, — 
It  was  summer  when  he  smiled. 
Oft  the  hoary  sea  and  grim 
Stretched  its  white  arms  out  to  him, 
Calling,  "  Sun-child,  come  to  me ; 
Let  me  warm  my  heart  with  thee  \ " 
But  the  child  heard  not  the  sea. 

Krinken  on  the  beach  one  day 

Saw  a  maiden  Nis  at  play; 

Fair,  and  very  fair,  was  she, 

Just  a  little  child  was  he. 
"  Krinken,"  said  the  maiden  Nis, 
"  Let  me  have  a  little  kiss, — - 

Just  a  kiss,  and  go  with  me 

To  the  summer-lands  that  be 

Down  within  the  silver  sea.'; 


KRINKEN 

Krinken  was  a  little  child, 
By  the  maiden  Nis  beguiled; 
Down  into  the  calling  sea 
With  the  maiden  Nis  went  he. 

But  the  sea  calls  out  no  more; 
It  is  winter  on  the  shore, — 
Winter  where  that  little  child 
Made  sweet  summer  when  he  smiled; 
Though  't  is  summer  on  the  sea 
Where  with  maiden  Nis  went  he, — 
Summer,  summer  evermore, — 
It  is  winter  on  the  shore, 
Winter,  winter  evermore. 

Of  the  summer  on  the  deep 
Come  sweet  visions  in  my  sleep; 
His  fair  face  lifts  from  the  sea, 
His  dear  voice  calls  out  to  me, — 
These  my  dreams  of  summer  be. 

Krinken  was  a  little  child, 
By  the  maiden  Nis  beguiled; 


KRINKEN 

Oft  the  hoary  sea  and  grim 
Reached  its  longing  arms  to  him, 
Crying,  "  Sun-child,  come  to  me ; 
Let  me  warm  my  heart  with  thee ! " 
But  the  sea  calls  out  no  more; 
It  is  winter  on  the  shore, — 
Winter,  cold  and  dark  and  wild; 
Krinken  was  a  little  child, — 
It  was  summer  when  he  smiled; 
Down  he  went  into  the  sea, 
And  the  winter  bides  with  me. 
Just  a  little  child  was  he. 


M 


THE   NAUGHTY   DOLL 

Y  dolly  is  a  dreadful  care, — 

Her  name  is  Miss  Araandy; 
I  dress  her  up  and  curl  her  hair, 

And  feed  her  taffy  candy. 
Yet  heedless  of  the  pleading  voice 

Of  her  devoted  mother, 
She  will  not  wed  her  mother's  choice 
But  says  she  '11  wed  another. 

I  'd  have  her  wed  the  china  vase, — 

There  is  no  Dresden  rarer; 
You  might  go  searching  every  place 

And  never  find  a  fairer. 
He  is  a  gentle,  pinkish  youth, — 

Of  that  there  's  no  denying; 
Yet  when  I  speak  of  him,  forspoth, 

Amandy  falls  to  crying! 


THE   NAUGHTY  DOLL 

She  loves  the  drum  —  that's  very  plain  — 

And  scorns  the  vase  so  clever  ; 
And  weeping,  vows  she  will  remain 

A  spinster  doll  forever  ! 
The  protestations  of  the  drum 

I  am  convinced  are  hollow; 
When  once  distressing  times  should  come, 

How  soon  would  ruin  follow  ! 

Yet  all  in  vain  the  Dresden  boy 

From  yonder  mantel  woos  her; 
A  mania  for  that  vulgar  toy, 

The  noisy  drum,  imbues  her! 
In  vain  I  wheel  her  to  and  fro, 

And  reason  with  her  mildly, — 
Her  waxen  tears  in  torrents  flow, 

Her  sawdust  heart  beats  wildly. 

I  'm  sure  that  when  I  'm  big  and  tall, 
And  wear  long  trailing  dresses, 

I  sha'n't  encourage  beaux  at  all 
Till  mama  acquiesces; 


THE   NAUGHTY    DOLL 

Our  choice  will  be  a  suitor  then 
As  pretty  as  this  vase  is, — 

Oh,  how  we  '11  hate  the  noisy  men 
With  whiskers  on  their  faces! 


NIGHTFALL   IN   DORDRECHT 

THE  mill  goes  toiling  slowly  around 
With  steady  and  solemn  creak, 
And  my  little  one  hears  in  the  kindly  sound 

The  voice  of  the  old  mill  speak. 
While  round  and  round  those  big  white  wings 

Grimly  and  ghostlike  creep, 
My  little  one  hears  that  the  old  mill  sings: 
"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 

The  sails  are  reefed  and  the  nets  are  drawn, 

And,  over  his  pot  of  beer, 
The  fisher,  against  the  morrow's  dawn, 

Lustily  maketh  cheer; 
He  mocks  at  the  winds  that  caper  along 

From  the  far-off  clamorous  deep  — 
But  we — we  love  their  lullaby  song 

Of  "  Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep !  " 


NIGHTFALL   IN    DORDRECHT  II 

Old  dog  Fritz  in  slumber  sound 

Groans  of  the  stony  mart — 
To-morrow  how  proudly  he  '11  trot  you  round, 

Hitched  to  our  new  milk-cart! 
And  you  shall  help  me  blanket  the  kine 

And  fold  the  gentle  sheep 
And  set  the  herring  a-soak  in  brine — 

But  now,  little  tulip,  sleep ! 

A  Dream- One  comes  to  button  the  eyes 
That  wearily  droop  and  blink, 

While  the  old  mill  buffets  the  frowning  skies 
And  scolds  at  the  stars  that  wink; 

Over  your  face  the  misty  wings 

Of  that  beautiful  Dream-One  svveep, 

And  rocking  your  cradle  she  softly  sings  i 
"Sleep,  little  tulip,  sleep!" 


INTRY-MINTRY 

WILLIE  and  Bess,  Georgia  and  May — 
Once,  as  these  children  were  hard  at  play, 
An  old  man,  hoary  and  tottering,  came 
And  watched  them  playing  their  pretty  game. 
He  seemed  to  wonder,  while  standing  there, 

What  the  meaning  thereof  could  be— 
Aha,  but  the  old  man  yearned  to  share 

Of  the  little  children's  innocent  glee 
As  they  circled  around  with  laugh  and  shout 
And  told  their  rime  at  counting  out: 
"  Intry-mintry,  cutrey-corn, 
Apple-seed  and  apple-thorn; 
Wire,  brier,  limber,  lock, 
Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 
Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 
Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest ! " 


INTRY-MINTRY  13 

Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May— 
Ah,  the  mirth  of  that  summer-day ! 
'T  was  Father  Time  who  had  come  to  share 
The  innocent  joy  of  those  children  there; 
He  learned  betimes  the  game  they  played 

And  into  their  sport  with  them  went  he — 
How  could  the  children  have  been  afraid, 

Since  little  they  recked  whom  he  might  be  ? 
They  laughed  to  hear  old  Father  Time 
Mumbling  that  curious  nonsense  rime 

Of  "  Intry-mintry,  cutrey-corn, 

Apple-seed  and  apple-thorn; 

Wire,  brier,  limber,  lock, 

Twelve  geese  in  a  flock; 

Some  flew  east,  some  flew  west, 

Some  flew  over  the  cuckoo's  nest!" 


Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May, 
And  joy  of  summer  —  where  are  they? 
The  grim  old  man  still  standeth  near 
Crooning  the  song  of  a  far-off  year; 


I4  INTRY-MINTRY 

And  into  the  winter  I  come  alone, 

Cheered  by  that  mournful  requiem, 
Soothed  by  the  dolorous  monotone 

That   shall   count  me   off  as    it    counted 

them — 

The  solemn  voice  of  old  Father  Time 
Chanting  the  homely  nursery  rime 

He  learned  of  the  children  a  summer  morn 
When,  with  "  apple-seed  and  apple-thorn," 
Life  was  full  of  the  dulcet  cheer 
That  bringeth  the  grace  of  heaven  anear — 
The  sound  of  the  little  ones  hard  at  play— 
Willie  and  Bess,  Georgie  and  May. 


PITTYPAT   AND    TIPPYTOE 

ALL  day  long  they  come  and  go — 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe; 
Footprints  up  and  down  the  hall, 

Playthings  scattered  on  the  tioor, 
Finger-marks  along  the  wall, 

Tell-tale  smudges  on  the  door  — 
By  these  presents  you  shall  know 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe. 

How  they  riot  at  their  play! 
And  a  dozen  times  a  day 

In  they  troop,  demanding  bread — 

Only  buttered  bread  will  do, 
And  that  butter  must  be  spread 

Inches  thick  with  sugar  too! 
And  I  never  can  say  "  No, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe!" 
15 


1 6  PITTYPAT  AND    TIPPYTOE 

Sometimes  there  are  griefs  to  soothe, 
Sometimes  ruffled  brows  to  smooth; 
For  (I  much  regret  to  say) 

Tippytoe  and  Pittypat 
Sometimes  interrupt  their  play 

With  an  internecine  spat; 
Fie,  for  shame !  to  quarrel  so  — 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe! 

Oh  the  thousand  worrying  things 
Every  day  recurrent  brings! 

Hands  to  scrub  and  hair  to  brush, 
Search  for  playthings  gone  amiss. 
Many  a  wee  complaint  to  hush, 

Many  a  little  bump  to  kiss; 
Life  seems  one  vain,  fleeting  show 
To  Pittypat  and  Tippytoe! 

And  when  day  is  at  an  end, 
There  are  little  duds  to  mend: 
Little  frocks  are  strangely  torn, 

Little  shoes  great  holes  reveal, 
Little  hose,  but  one  day  worn, 
Rudely  yawn  at  toe  and  heel! 


PITTYPAT  AND    T1PPYTOE  17 

Who  but  you  could  work  such  woe, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe? 

But  when  comes  this  thought  to  me: 
"Some  there  are  that  childless  be," 
Stealing  to  their  little  beds, 

With  a  love  I  cannot  speak, 
Tenderly  I  stroke  their  heads  — 
Fondly  kiss  each  velvet  cheek. 
God  help  those  who  do  not  know 
A  Pittypat  or  Tippytoe! 

On  the  floor  and  down  the  hall, 

Rudely  smutched  upon  the  wall, 

There  are  proofs  in  every  kind 

Of  the  havoc  they  have  wrought, 
And  upon  my  heart  you  'd  find 

Just  such  trade-marks,  if  you  sought; 
Oh,  how  glad  I  am  't  is  so, 
Pittypat  and  Tippytoe! 


BALOW,  MY    BONNIE 

HUSH,  bonnie,  dinna  greit; 
Moder  will  rocke  her  sweete,- 
Balow,  my  boy  ! 
When  that  his  toile  ben  done, 
Daddie  will  come  anone, — 
Hush  thee,  my  lyttel  one; 
Balow,  my  boy! 

Gin  thou  dost  sleepe,  perchaunce 
Fayries  will  come  to  daunce, — 

Balow,  my  boy ! 
Oft  hath  thy  moder  scene 
Moonlight  and  mirkland  queene 
Daunce  on  thy  slumbering  een, — 

Balow,  my  boy! 

18 


BALOW,  MY    BONNIE  19 

Then  droned  a  bomblebee 
Saftly  this  songe  to  thee: 
"  Balow,  my  boy !  " 

And  a  wee  heather  bell, 
Pluckt  from  a  fayry  dell, 
Chimed  thee  this  rune  hersell : 
"  Balow,  my  boy !  " 

See,  bonnie,  dinna  greit; 
Moder  doth  rock  her  sweete.- 

Balow,  my  boy! 
Give  mee  thy  lyttel  hand, 
Moder  will  hold  it  and 
Lead  thee  to  balow  land,— 

Balow,  my  boy! 


THE    HAWTHORNE    CHILDREN 

rr^HE  Hawthorne  children — seven  in  all- 
1      Are  famous  friends  of  mine, 
And  with  what  pleasure  I  recall 
How,  years  ago,  one  gloomy  fall, 
I  took  a  tedious  railway  line 
And  journeyed  by  slow  stages  down 
Unto  that  sleepy  seaport  town 
(Albeit  one  worth  seeing), 
Where  Hildegarde,  John,  Henry,  Fred, 
And  Beatrix  and  Gwendolen 
And  she  that  was  the  baby  then — 
These  famous  seven,  as  aforesaid, 
Lived,  moved,  and  had  their  being. 

The  Hawthorne  children  gave  me  such 

A  welcome  by  the  sea, 
That  the  eight  of  us  were  soon  in  touch, 
And  though  their  mother  marveled  much, 

Happy  as  larks  were  we ! 


THE    HAWTHORNE    CHILDREN  21 

Egad  I  was  a  boy  again 

With  Henry,  John,  and  Gwendolen ! 

And,  oh!    the  funny  capers 
I  cut  with  Hildegarde  and  Fred ! 
The  pranks  we  heedless  children  played, 
The  deafening,  awful  noise  we  made — 
'T  would  shock  my  family,  if  they  read 
About  it  in  the  papers! 


The  Hawthorne  children  all  were  smart; 

The  girls,  as  I  recall, 
Had  comprehended  every  art 
Appealing  to  the  head  and  heart, 

The  boys  were  gifted,  all; 
'T  was  Hildegarde  who  showed  me  how 
To  hitch  the  horse  and  milk  a  cow 

And  cook  the  best  of  suppers; 
With  Beatrix  upon  the  sands 
I  sprinted  daily,  and  was  beat, 
While  Henry  stumped  me  to  the  feat 
Of  walking  round  upon  my  hands 

Instead  of  on  my  "  uppers." 


22  THE    HAWTHORNE    CHILDREN 

The  Hawthorne  children  liked  me  best 

Of  evenings,  after  tea; 
For  then,  by  general  request, 
I  spun  them  yarns  about  the  west — 

And  all  involving  Me ! 
I  represented  how  I  'd  slain 
The  bison  on  the  gore-smeared  plain, 

And  divers  tales  of  wonder 
I  told  of  how  I  'd  fought  and  bled 
In  Injun  scrimmages  galore, 
Till  Mrs.  Hawthorne  quoth  "  No  more ! " 
And  packed  her  darlings  off  to  bed 

To  dream  of  blood  and  thunder ! 


They  must  have  changed  a  deal  since  then 

The  misses  tall  and  fair 
And  those  three  lusty,  handsome  men, 
Would  they  be  girls  and  boys  again 

Were  I  to  happen  there, 
Down  in  that  spot  beside  the  sea 
Where  we  made  such  tumultuous  glee 


THE    HAWTHORNE   CHILDREN  23 

In  dull  autumnal  weather  ? 
Ah  me!    the  years  go  swiftly  by, 
And  yet  how  fondly  I  recall 
The  week  when  we  were  children  all — 
Dear  Hawthorne  children,  you  and  I  — 
Just  eight  of  us,  together! 


LITTLE    BLUE    PIGEON 

r>LEEP,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings — 
O     Little  blue  pigeon  with  velvet  eyes ; 
Sleep  to  tne  singing  of  mother-bird  swinging — 
Swinging  the  nest  where  her  little  one  lies. 

Away  out  yonder  I  see  a  star— 
Silvery  star  with  a  tinkling  song; 

To  the  soft  dew  falling  I  hear  it  calling — 
Calling  and  tinkling  the  night  along. 

In  through  the  window  a  moonbeam  comes — 
Little  gold  moonbeam  with  misty  wings; 

All  silently  creeping,  it  asks:  "  Is  he  sleeping — 
Sleeping  and  dreaming  while  mother  sings  ?  " 


LITTLE    BLUE    PIGEON  25 

Up  from  the  sea  there  floats  the  sob 

Of  the  waves  that  are  breaking   upon   the 

shore, 
As  though  they  were  groaning  in  anguish,  and 

moaning — 
Bemoaning  the  ship  that  shall  come  no  more. 

But  sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings — 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  mournful  eyes; 

Am  I  not  singing? — see,  I  am  swinging — 
Swinging  the  nest  where  my  darling  lies. 


THE   LYTTEL  BOY 

r>OME  time  there  ben  a  lyttel  boy 
O  That  wolde  not  renne  and  play, 
And  helpless  like  that  little  tyke 

Ben  allwais  in  the  way. 
"  Goe,  make  you  merrie  with  the  rest," 

His  weary  moder  cried; 
But  with  a  frown  he  catcht  her  gown 

And  hong  untill  her  side. 

That  boy  did  love  his  moder  well, 

Which  spake  him  faire,  I  ween; 
He  loved  to  stand  and  hold  her  hand 

And  ken  her  with  his  een ; 
His  cosset  bleated  in  the  croft, 

His  toys  unheeded  lay, — 
He  wolde  not  goe,  but,  tarrying  soe, 

Ben  allwais  in  the  way. 
26 


THE    LYTTEL    BOY  27 

Godde  loveth  children  and  doth  gird 

His  throne  with  soche  as  these, 
And  he  doth  smile  in  plaisaunce  while 

They  cluster  at  his  knees; 
And  some  time,  when  he  looked  on  earth 

And  watched  the  bairns  at  play, 
He  kenned  with  joy  a  lyttel  boy 

Ben  allwais  in  the  way. 

And  then  a  moder  felt  her  heart 

How  that  it  ben  to-torne, 
She  kissed  eche  day  till  she  ben  gray 

The  shoon  he  use  to  worn; 
No  bairn  let  hold  untill  her  gown 

Nor  played  upon  the  floore, — 
Godde's  was  the  joy;  a  lyttel  boy 

Ben  in  the  way  no  more ! 


TEENY-WEENY 

T~>VERY  evening,  after  tea, 

LJ  Teeny-Weeny  comes  to  me, 

And,  astride  my  willing  knee, 

Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away; 
Though  that  palfrey,  all  too  spare3 
Finds  his  burden  hard  to  bear, 
Teeny-Weeny  does  n't  care; 

He  commands,  and  I  obey! 

First  it  's  trot,  and  gallop  then; 
Now  it  's  back  to  trot  again; 
Teeny-Weeny  likes  it  when 

He  is  riding  fierce  and  fast. 
Then  his  dark  eyes  brighter  grow 
And  his  cheeks  are  all  aglow: 
"  More  !  "  he  cries,  and  never  "  Whoa ! 
Till  the  horse  breaks  down  at  last. 
28 


TEENY-WEENY  29 

Oh,  the  strange  and  lovely  sights 

Teeny-Weeny  sees  of  nights, 

As  he  makes  those  famous  flights 

On  that  wondrous  horse  of  his! 
Oftentimes  before  he  knows, 
Wearylike  his  eyelids  close, 
And,  still  smiling,  off  he  goes 

Where  the  land  of  By-low  is. 

There  he  sees  the  folk  of  fay 
Hard  at  ring-a-rosie  play, 
And  he  hears  those  fairies  say: 
"  Come,  let  's  chase  him  to  and  fro ! " 
But,  with  a  defiant  shout, 
Teeny  puts  that  host  to  rout; 
Of  this  tale  I  make  no  doubt, 
Every  night  he  tells  it  so. 

So  I  feel  a  tender  pride 
In  my  boy  who  dares  to  ride 
That  fierce  horse  of  his  astride, 
Off  into  those  misty  lands ; 


30  TEENY-WEENY 

And  as  on  my  breast  he  lies, 
Dreaming  in  that  wondrous  wise. 
I  caress  his  folded  eyes, 

Pat  his  little  dimpled  hands. 

On  a  time  he  went  away, 
Just  a  little  while  to  stay, 
And  I  'm  not  ashamed  to  say 

I  was  very  lonely  then; 
Life  without  him  was  so  sad, 
You  can  fancy  I  was  glad 
And  made  merry  when  I  had 

Teeny- Weeny  back  again! 

So  of  evenings,  after  tea, 
When  he  toddles  up  to  me 
And  goes  tugging  at  my  knee, 

You  should  hear  his  palfrey  neigh! 
You  should  see  him  prance  and  shy, 
When,  with  an  exulting  cry, 
Teeny-Weeny,  vaulting  high, 

Plies  his  lash  and  rides  away! 


H 


NELLIE 

is  listening  soul  hears  no  echo  of  battle, 

No  paean  of  triumph  nor  welcome  of  fame; 
But   down    through   the  years   comes  a  little 

one's  prattle, 

And  softly  he  murmurs  her  idolized  name. 
And  it  seems  as  if  now  at  his  heart  she  were 

clinging 
As  she  clung  in  those  dear,  distant  years  to 

his  knee; 
He  sees  her  fair  face,  and  he  hears  her  sweet 

singing— 
And  Nellie  is  coming  from  over  the  sea. 

While  each  patriot's  hope  stays  the  fullness  of 

sorrow, 

While    our    eyes    are    bedimmed    and    our 
voices  are  low, 

3* 


32  NELLIE 

He  dreams  of  the  daughter  who  comes  with 

the  morrow 
Like   an   angel   come   back   from    the   dear 

long  ago. 
Ah,  what  to  him  now  is  a  nation's  emotion, 

And  what  for  our  love  or  our  grief  careth  he  ? 
A  swift-speeding  ship  is  a-sail  on  the  ocean, 
And  Nellie  is  coming  from  over  the  sea! 

O    daughter  —  my     daughter !     when     Death 

stands  before  me 

And  beckons  me  off  to  that  far  misty  shore, 
Let  me  see  your  loved  form  bending  tenderly 

o'er  me, 

And  feel  your  dear  kiss  on  my  lips  as  of  yore. 

In  the  grace  of  your  love  all  my  anguish  abating, 

I  '11  bear  myself  bravely  and  proudly  as  he, 

And  know  the  sweet  peace  that  hallowed  his 

waiting 
When  Nellie  was  coming  from  over  the  sea. 


NORSE   LULLABY 

I^HE  sky  is  dark  and  the  hills  are  white 
As  the  storm-king  speeds  from  the  north 

to-night; 

And  this  is  the  song  the  storm-king  sings, 
As  over  the  world  his  cloak  he  flings: 

"Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep"; 
He  rustles  his  wings  and  gruffly  sings: 
"Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 

On  yonder  mountain-side  a  vine 
Clings  at  the  foot  of  a  mother  pine; 
The  tree  bends  over  the  trembling  thing, 
And  only  the  vine  can  hear  her  sing: 
"  Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep — 
What  shall  you  fear  when  I  am  here? 
Sleep,  little  one,  sleep." 

33 


24  NORSE    LULLABY 

The  king  may  sing  in  his  bitter  flight, 
The  tree  may  croon  to  the  vine  to-night, 
But  the  little  snowflake  at  my  breast 
Liketh  the  song  /  sing  the  best — 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  one,  sleep; 
Weary  thou  art,  a-next  my  heart 

Sleep,  little  one,  sleep. 


0 


GRANDMA'S   PRAYER 

I  PRAY  that,  risen  from  the  dead, 
I  may  in  glory  stand  — 
A  crown,  perhaps,  upon  my  head, 
But  a  needle  in  my  hand. 

I  Ve  never  learned  to  sing  or  play. 
So  let  no  harp  be  mine; 

From  birth  unto  my  dying  day, 
Plain  sewing  's  been  my  line. 

Therefore,  accustomed  to  the  end 
To  plying  useful  stitches, 

I  '11  be  content  if  asked  to  mend 
The  little  angels'  breeches. 

35 


SOME   TIME 

LIST  night,  my  darling,  as  you  slept, 
I  thought  I  heard  you  sigh, 
And  to  your  little  crib  I  crept, 

And  watched  a  space  thereby; 
Then,  bending  down,  I  kissed  your  brow- 

For,  oh !  I  love  you  so — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 
But  some  time  you  shall  know. 

Some  time,  when,  in  a  darkened  place 

Where  others  come  to  weep, 
Your  eyes  shall  see  a  weary  face 

Calm  in  eternal  sleep; 
The  speechless  lips,  the  wrinkled  brow, 

The  patient  smile  may  show — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now, 

But  some  time  you  shall  know. 
36 


SOME    TIME  37 

Look  backward,  then,  into  the  years, 

And  see  me  here  to-night — 
See,  O  my  darling!  how  my  tears 

Are  falling  as  I  write; 
And  feel  once  more  upon  your  brow 

The  kiss  of  long  ago — 
You  are  too  young  to  know  it  now. 

But  some  time  you  shall  know. 


As 


THE    FIRE-HANGBIRD'S   NEST 

s  I  am  sitting  in  the  sun  upon  the   porch 

to-day, 
I  look  with   wonder   at   the   elm   that   stands 

across  the  way; 
I  say  and  mean  "  with   wonder,"   for   now  it 

seems  to  me 
That  elm  is  not  as  tall  as  years  ago  it  used 

to  be! 
The  old  fire-hangbird  's  built  her  nest  therein 

for  many  springs  — 
High  up  amid  the  sportive  winds  the  curious 

cradle  swings, 
But  not  so   high  as  when  a  little  boy  I  did 

my  best 
To  scale  that  elm  and  carry  off  the  old  fire- 

hangbird's  nest ! 
38 


THE    FIRE-HANGBIRD'S     NEST  39 

The  Hubbard  boys  had  tried  in  vain  to  reach 

the  homely  prize 
That  dangled  from   that  upper  outer  twig  in 

taunting  wise, 
And   once,    when    Deacon   Turner's   boy   had 

almost  grasped  the  limb, 
He  fell!   and  had   to   have  a  doctor   operate 

on  him ! 
Philetus  Baker  broke  his  leg  and  Orrin  Root 

his  arm — 
But   what   of  that?      The    danger    gave    the 

sport  a  special  charm! 

The   Bixby   and   the    Cutler  boys,   the    New- 
tons  and  the  rest 
Ran  every  risk  to  carry  off  the  old  fire-hang- 

bird's  nest! 


I    can    remember    that   I    used   to   knee    my 

trousers  through, 
That   mother    used    to    wonder  how  my  legs 

got  black  and  blue, 


40  THE    FIRE-HANGB'RD'S    NEST 

And  how  she  used  to   talk  to  me  and  make 

stern  threats  when  she 
Discovered    that   my   hobby  was   the   nest  in 

yonder  tree; 
How,  as  she  patched  my  trousers  or  greased 

my  purple  legs, 
She  told  me  't  would  be  wicked  to  destroy  a 

hangbird's  eggs, 
A.nd  then  she  'd  call  on  father  and  on  gran'pa 

to  attest 
That  they,  as  boys,  had  never  robbed  an  old 

fire-hangbird's  nest! 


Yet  all  those  years  I  coveted  the  trophy  flaunt 
ing  there, 

While,  as  it  were  in  mockery  of  my  abject 
despair, 

The  old  fire-hangbird  confidently  used  to 
come  and  go, 

As  if  she  were  indifferent  to  the  bandit  horde 
below ! 


THE    FIRE-HANGBIRD'S   NEST  41 

And  sometimes  clinging  to  her  nest  we  thought 

we  heard  her  chide 
The   callow   brood    whose   cries  betrayed   the 

fear  that  reigned  inside : 
"  Hush,  little  dears !  all  profitless  shall  be  their 

wicked  quest — 
I  knew  my  business  when  I  built  the  old  fire- 

hangbird's  nest ! " 


For  many,  very  many  years  that  mother-bird 
has  come 

To  rear  her  pretty  little  brood  within  that  cozy 
home. 

She  is  the  selfsame  bird  of  old  —  I  'm  certain 
it  is  she  — 

Although  the  chances  are  that  she  has  quite 
forgotten  me. 

Just  as  of  old  that  prudent,  crafty  bird  of  com 
pound  name 

(And  in  parenthesis  I  '11  say  her  nest  is  still 
the  same); 


42  THE    FIRE-HANGBIRD'S    NEST 

Just  as  of  old  the  passion,  too,  that  fires  the 

youthful  breast 
To  climb  unto  and  comprehend  the  old  fire- 

hangbird's  nest  1 


I  like  to  see  my  old-time  friend  swing  in  that 

ancient  tree. 
And,  if  the  elm  's  as  tall  and  sturdy  as  it  used 

to  be, 
I  'm  sure  that  many  a  year  that  nest  shall  in 

the  breezes  blow, 
For  boys  are  n't  what  they  used  to  be  a  forty 

years  ago ! 

The  elm  looks  shorter  than  it  did  when  bro 
ther  Rufe  and  I 
Beheld  with  envious  hearts  that  trophy  flaunted 

from  on  high; 
He  writes  that  in  the  city  where  he  's  living 

'way  out  West 
His  little   boys  have   never  seen  an  old  fire- 

hangbird's  nest! 


THE    FIRE-HANGBIRD'S    NEST  43 

Poor  little  chaps!  how  lonesomelike  their  city 

life  must  be  — 
1  wish  they  'd  come  and  live  awhile  in  this 

old  house  with  me! 
They  'd  have  the  honest  friends  and  healthful 

sports  I  used  to  know 
When  brother  Rufe  and  I  were  boys  a  forty 

years  ago. 
So,   when    they   grew   from    romping  lads    to 

busy,   useful  men, 
They    could    recall    with    proper    pride    their 

country   life  again; 
And  of  those  recollections  of  their  youth  I  'm 

sure  the  best 
Would  be  of  how  they  sought  in  vain  the  olf* 

fire-hansbird's  nest! 


BUTTERCUP,    POPPY,    FORGET- 
ME-NOT 

BUTTERCUP,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not — 
These  three  bloomed  in  a  garden  spot; 
And  once,  all  merry  with  song  and  play, 
A  little  one  heard  three  voices  say: 
"Shine  and  shadow,  summer  and  spring, 

O  thou  child  with  the  tangled  hair 
And  laughing  eyes!  we  three  shall  bring 

Each  an  offering  passing  fair." 
The  little  one  did  not  understand, 
But  they  bent  and  kissed  the  dimpled  hand. 

Buttercup  gamboled  all  day  long, 
Sharing  the  little  one's  mirth  and  song; 
Then,  stealing  along  on  misty  gleams, 
Poppy  came  bearing  the  sweetest  dreams. 

44 


PUTTERCUP,  POPPY,  FORGET-ME-NOT      45 

Playing  and  dreaming — and  that  was  all 
Till  once  a  sleeper  would  not  awake; 
Kissing  the  little  face  under  the  pall, 
We  thought  of  the  words  the  third  flowei 

spake; 

And  we  found  betimes  in  a  hallowed  spot 
The  solace  and  peace  of  Forget-me-not. 

Buttercup  shareth  the  joy  of  day, 

Glinting  with  gold  the  hours  of  play; 

Bringeth  the  poppy  sweet  repose, 

When   the    hands    would    fold    and   the    eyes 

would  close; 
And  after  it  all — the  play  and  the  sleep 

Of  a  little  life — what  cometh  then? 
To  the  hearts  that  ache  and  the  eyes  that 

weep 

A  new  flower  bringeth  God's  peace  again 
Each  one  serveth  its  tender  lot — 
Buttercup,  Poppy,  Forget-me-not. 


WYNKEN,    BLYNKEN,    AND   NOD 

WYNKEN,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 
Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe  — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light, 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"Where    are    you    going,    and   what    do   you 

wish  ?  " 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"We  have  come  to  fish  for  the  herring  fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we!" 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 
As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe, 

And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 
Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew. 


WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN,  AND   NOD  47 

The  little  stars  were  the  herring  fish 
That  lived  in  that  beautiful  sea — 
"Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish— 
Never  afeard  are  we  " ; 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 

To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam  — 
Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 

Bringing  the  fishermen  home; 
'T  was  all  so  pretty  a  sail  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be, 
And  some  folks  thought  't  was  a  dream  they'd 

dreamed 

Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea — - 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three: 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


48  WYNKEN,  BLYNKEN,  AND   NOD 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed. 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  in  the  misty  sea, 
Where    the   old    shoe   rocked  the  fishermen 
three : 

Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


GOLD  AND  LOVE  FOR  DEARIE 

OUT  on  the  mountain  over  the  town, 
All  night  long,  all  night  long, 
The  trolls  go  up  and  the  trolls  go  down, 

Bearing  their  packs  and  singing  a  song; 
And  this  is  the  song  the  hill-folk  croon, 
As  they   trudge   in   the  light  of  the  misty 

moon — 

This  is  ever  their  dolorous  tune: 
"Gold,  gold!  ever  more  gold — 

Bright  red  gold  for  dearie ! " 

Deep  in  the  hill  a  father  delves 
All  night  long,  all  night  long; 

None  but  the  peering,  furtive  elves 
Sees  his  toil  and  hears  his  song; 

49 


§0     GOLD  AND  LOVE  FOR  DEARIE 

Merrily  ever  the  cavern  rings 
As  merrily  ever  his  pick  he  swings, 
And  merrily  ever  this  song  he  sings: 
"  Gold,  gold !  ever  more  gold — 

Bright  red  gold  for  dearie!" 

Mother  is  rocking  thy  lowly  bed 
All  night  long,  all  night  long, 

Happy  to  smooth  thy  curly  head, 

To  hold  thy  hand  and  to  sing  her  «ong : 

'T  is  not  of  the  hill-folk  dwarfed  and  old, 

Nor  the  song  of  thy  father,  stanch  and  bold. 

And  the  burthen  it  beareth  is  not  of  gold . 

But  it  's  "  Love,  love!  nothing  but  love-- 
Mother's  love  for  dearie ! " 


THE   PEACE   OF  CHRISTMAS-TIME 

DEAREST,  how  hard  it  is  to  say 
That  all  is  for  the  best, 
Since,  sometimes,  in  a  grievous  way 
God's  will  is  manifest. 

See  with  what  hearty,  noisy  glee 

Our  little  ones  to-night 
Dance  round  and  round  our  Christmas  tree 

With  pretty  toys  bedight. 

Dearest,  one  voice  they  may  not  hear, 

One  face  they  may  not  see — 
Ah,  what  of  all  this  Christmas  cheer 

Cometh  to  you  and  me  ? 


52         THE    PEACE    OF    CHRISTMAS-TIME 

Cometh  before  our  misty  eyes 

That  other  little  face, 
And  we  clasp,  in  tender,  reverent  wise, 

That  love  in  the  old  embrace. 


Dearest,  the  Christ-Child  walks  to-night, 

Bringing  his  peace  to  men, 
And  he  bringeth  to  you  and  to  me  the  light 

Of  the  old,  old  years  again. 


Bringeth  the  peace  of  long  ago, 
When  a  wee  one  clasped  your  knee 

.And   lisped    of  the    morrow  —  dear   one,  you 

know — 
And  here  come  back  is  he ! 


Dearest,  't  is  sometimes  hard  to  say 

That  all  is  for  the  best, 
For,  often,  in  a  grievous  way 

God's  will  is  manifest. 


THE    PEACE   OF    CHRISTMAS-TIME         53 

But  in  the  grace  of  this  holy  night 
That  bringeth  us  back  our  child, 

Let  us  see  that  the  ways  of  God  are  right, 
And  so  be  reconciled. 


TO   A   LITTLE  BROOK 

You  'RE  not  so  big  as  you  were  then, 
..    O  little  brook!  — 
I  mean  those  hazy  summers  when 
We  boys  roamed,  full  of  awe,  beside 
Your  noisy,  foaming,  tumbling  tide, 
And  wondered  if  it  could  be  true 
That  there  were  bigger  brooks  than  you, 
O  mighty  brook,  O  peerless  brook! 

All  up  and  down  this  reedy  place 

Where  lives  the  brook, 
We  angled  for  the  furtive  dace; 
The  redwing-blackbird  did  his  best 
To  make  us  think  he  'd  built  his  nest 
Hard  by  the  stream,  when,  like  as  not, 
He  'd  hung  it  in  a  secret  spot 

Far  from  the  brook,  the  telltale  brook! 

54 


TO  A   LITTLE    BROOK  55 

And  often,  when  the  noontime  heat 

Parboiled  the  brook, 

We  'd  draw  our  boots  and  swing  our  feet 
Upon  the  waves  that,  in  their  play, 
Would  tag  us  last  and  scoot  away; 
And  mother  never  seemed  to  know 
What  burnt  our  legs  and  chapped  them  so— > 

But  father  guessed  it  was  the  brook! 


And  Fido — how  he  loved  to  swim 

The  cooling  brook, 

Whenever  we  'd  throw  sticks  for  him; 
And  how  we  boys  did  wish  that  we 
Could  only  swim  as  good  as  he — 
Why,  Daniel  Webster  never  was 
Recipient  of  such  great  applause 

As  Fido,  battling  with  the  brook  1 


But  once  —  O  most  unhappy  day 

For  you,  my  brook!  — 
Came  Cousin  Sam  along  that  way; 


56  TO   A   LITTLE   BROOK 

And,  having  lived  a  spell  out  West, 
Where  creeks  are  n't  counted  much  at  best, 
He  neither  waded,  swam,  nor  leapt, 
But,  with  superb  indifference,  slept 

Across  that  brook — our  mighty  brook! 

Why  do  you  scamper  on  your  way, 

You  little  brook, 

When  I  come  back  to  you  to-day? 
Is  it  because  you  flee  the  grass 
That  lunges  at  you  as  you  pass, 
As  if,  in  playful  mood,  it  would 
Tickle  the  truant  if  it  could, 

You  chuckling  brook — you  saucy  brook? 

Or  is  it  you  no  longer  know — 

You  fickle  brook — 
The  honest  friend  of  long  ago  ? 
The  years  that  kept  us  twain  apart 
Have  changed  my  face,  but  not  my  heart— 
Many  and  sore  those  years,  and  yet 
I  fancied  you  could  not  forget 

That  happy  time,  my  playmate  brook! 


TO   A   LITTLE    BROOK  5? 

Oh,  sing  again  in  artless  glee, 

My  little  brook, 

The  song  you  used  to  sing  for  me  — 
The  song  that  's  lingered  in  my  ears 
So  soothingly  these  many  years; 
My  grief  shall  be  forgotten  when 
I  hear  your  tranquil  voice  again 

And  that  sweet  song,  dear  little  brook! 


CROODLIN'  DOO 

Ho,  pretty  bee,  did  you  see  my  croodlin'  doo? 
Ho,  little  lamb,  is  she  jinkin'  on  the  lea? 
Ho,  bonnie  fairy,  bring  my  dearie  back 

to  me — 

Got  a  lump  o'  sugar  an'  a  posie  for  you, 
Only  bring  me  back  my  wee,  wee  croodlin'  doo! 

Why!   here  you  are,  my  little  croodlin'  doo! 
Looked  in  er  cradle,  but  did  n't  find  you 

there  — 
Looked   f'r  my   wee,   wee   croodlin'   doo 

ever'where; 

Be'n  kind  lonesome  all  er  day  withouten  you — 
Where  you  be'n,  my  teeny,  wee,  wee  croodlin' 
doo? 

58 


CROODLIN'  DOO  59 

Now  you  go  balow,  my  little  croodlin'  doo; 
Now  you  go  rockaby  ever  so  far, — 
Rockaby,  rockaby  up  to  the  star 
That 's  winkin'  an'  blinkin'  an'  singin'  to  you, 
As  you  go  balow,  my  wee,  wee  croodlin'  doo) 


LITTLE   MISTRESS   SANS-MERCI 

TITTLE  Mistress  Sans-Merci 
LJ  Fareth  world- wide,  fancy  free: 
Trotteth  cooing  to  and  fro, 

And  her  cooing  is  command — 
Never  ruled  there  yet,  I  trow, 
Mightier  despot  in  the  land. 
And  my  heart  it  lieth  where 
Mistress  Sans-Merci  doth  fare. 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci — 
She  hath  made  a  slave  of  me! 
"Go,"  she  biddeth,  and  I  go — 
"Come," and  I  am  fain  to  come — 
Never  mercy  doth  she  show, 
Be  she  wroth  or  frolicsome, 
Yet  am  I  content  to  be 
Slave  to  Mistress  Sans-Merci! 
60 


LITTLE    MISTRESS    SANS-MERC  I  6 1 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci 
Hath  become  so  dear  to  me 
That  I  count  as  passing  sweet 

All  the  pain  her  moods  impart, 
And  I  bless  the  little  feet 

That  go  trampling  on  my  heart: 
Ah,  how  lonely  life  would  be 
But  for  little  Sans-Merci ! 

Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci, 
Cuddle  close  this  night  to  me, 
And  the  heart,  which  all  day  long 

Ruthless  thou  hast  trod  upon, 
Shall  outpour  a  soothing  song 
For  its  best  beloved  one — 
All  its  tenderness  for  thee, 
Little  Mistress  Sans-Merci! 


LONG   AGO 

I  ONCE  knew  all  the  birds  that  came 
And  nested  in  our  orchard  trees, 
For  every  flower  I  had  a  name — 

My  friends  were  woodchucks,  toads,  and  bees; 
I  knew  where  thrived  in  yonder  glen 

What  plants  would    soothe    a  stone-bruised 

toe — 

Oh,  I  was  very  learned  then, 
But  that  was  very  long  ago. 

I  knew  the  spot  upon  the  hill 

Where  checkerberries  could  be  found, 

I  knew  the  rushes  near  the  mill 

Where  pickerel  lay  that  weighed  a  pound! 
62 


LONG  AGO  63 

I  knew  the  wood — the  very  tree 
Where  lived  the  poaching;  saucy  crow, 

And  all  the  woods  and  crows  knew  me  — 
But  that  was  very  long  -ago. 

And  pining  for  the  joys  of  youth, 

I  tread  the  old  familiar  spot 
Only  to  learn  this  solemn  truth: 

I  have  forgotten,  am  forgot. 
Yet  here  's  this  youngster  at  my  knee 

Knows  all  the  things  I  used  to  know; 
To  think  I  once  was  wise  as  he!  — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago. 

I  know  it  's  folly  to  complain 

Of  whatsoe'er  the  fates  decree, 
Yet,  were  not  wishes  all  in  vain, 

I  tell  you  what  my  wish  should  be: 
I  'd  wish  to  be  a  boy  again, 

Back  with  the  friends  I  used  to  know. 
For  I  was,  oh,  so  happy  then — 

But  that  was  very  long  ago! 


IN   THE  FIRELIGHT 

fire  upon  the  hearth  is  low, 
1    And  there  is  stillness  everywhere, 

And,  like  wing'd  spirits,  here  and  there 
The  firelight  shadows  fluttering  go. 
And  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 
A  childish  treble  breaks  the  gloom, 
And  softly  from  a  further  room 
Comes :  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

And,  somehow,  with  that  little  pray'r 
And  that  sweet  treble  in  my  ears, 
My  thought  goes  back  to  distant  years, 

And  lingers  with  a  dear  one  there; 
64 


IN  THE   FIRELIGHT  65 

And  as  I  hear  my  child's  amen, 

My  mother's  faith  comes  back  to  me — 
Crouched  at  her  side  I  seem  to  be, 

And  mother  holds  my  hands  again. 

Oh,  for  an  hour  in  that  dear  place — 

Oh,  for  the  peace  of  that  dear  time — 
Oh,  for  that  childish  trust  sublime  — 

Oh,  for  a  glimpse  of  mother's  face! 

Yet,  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 
I  do  not  seem  to  be  alone — 
Sweet  magic  of  that  treble  tone 

And  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep !  '* 


COBBLER  AND   STORK 

Cobbler. 
STORK,  I  am  justly  wroth, 

For  thou  hast  wronged  me  sore: 
The  ash  roof-tree  that  shelters  thee 

Shall  shelter  thee  no  more! 

Stork. 
Full  fifty  years  I  Ve  dwelt 

Upon  this  honest  tree, 
And  long  ago  (as  people  know!) 

I  brought  thy  father  thee. 
What  hail  hath  chilled  thy  heart, 

That  thou  shouldst  bid  me  go? 
Speak  out,  I  pray  —  then  I  '11  away, 

Since  thou  commandest  so. 

66 


COBBLER    AND    STORK  67 

Cobbler. 
Thou  tellest  of  the  time 

When,  wheeling  from  the  west, 
This   hut   thou    sought'st   and   one 
thou  brought'st 

Unto  a  mother's  breast. 
/  was  the  wretched  child 

Was  fetched  that  dismal  morn— 
'T  were  better  die  than  be  (as  I) 

To  life  of  misery  born ! 
And  hadst  thou  borne  me  on 

Still  farther  up  the  town, 
A  king  I  'd  be  of  high  degree, 

And  wear  a  golden  crown! 
For  yonder  lives  the  prince 

Was  brought  that  selfsame  day: 
How  happy  he,  while — look  at  me! 

I  toil  my  life  away ! 
And  see  my  little  boy — 

To  what  estate  he  's  born ! 
Why,  when  I  die  no  hoard  leave  I 

But  poverty  and  scorn. 
And  thou  hast  done  it  all  — 


68  COBBLER    AND    STORK 

I  might  have  been  a  king 
And  ruled  in  state,  but  for  thy  hate, 
Thou  base,  perfidious  thing  ! 


Stork. 
Since,  cobbler,  thou  dost  speak 

Of  one  thou  lovest  well, 
Hear  of  that  king  what  grievous  thing 

This  very  morn  befell. 
Whilst  round  thy  homely  bench 

They  well-beloved  played, 
In  yonder  hall  beneath  a  pall 

A  little  one  was  laid; 
Thy  well-beloved's  face 

Was  rosy  with  delight, 
But  'neath  that  pall  in  yonder  hall 

The  little  face  is  white; 
Whilst  by  a  merry  voice 

Thy  soul  is  filled  with  cheer, 
Another  weeps  for  one  that  sleeps 

All  mute  and  cold  anear; 
One  father  hath  his  hope, 


COBBLER    AND    STORK  69 

And  one  is  childless  now; 
He  wears  a  crown  and  rules  a  town— 

Only  a  cobbler  thou  / 
Wouldst  thou  exchange  thy  lot 

At  price  of  such  a  woe  ? 
I  '11  nest  no  more  above  thy  door, 

But,  as  thou  bidst  me,  go. 

Cobbler. 
Nay,  stork!  thou  shalt  remain — 

I  mean  not  what  I  said; 
Good  neighbors  we  must  always  be, 

So  make  thy  home  o'erhead. 
I  would  not  change  my  bench 

For  any  monarch's  throne, 
Nor  sacrifice  at  any  price 

My  darling  and  my  own! 
Stork!  on  my  roof-tree  bide, 

That,  seeing  thee  anear, 
I  '11  thankful  be  God  sent  by  thee 

Me  and  my  darling  here ! 


"LOLLYBY,   LOLLY,  LOLLYBY" 

E.ST  night,  whiles   that   the  curfew  bell  ben 
ringing, 
I  heard  a  moder  to  her  dearie  singing 

"  Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby  " ; 
And  presently  that  chylde  did  cease  hys  weeping, 
And  on  his  moder's  breast  did  fall  a-sleeping 
To  "lolly,  lolly,  lollyby." 

Faire  ben  the  chylde  unto  his  moder  clinging, 
But  fairer  yet  the  moder's  gentle  singing — 

"Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby"; 

And  angels  came  and  kisst  the  dearie  smiling 

In  dreems  while  him  hys  moder  ben  beguiling 

With  "lolly,  lolly,  lollyby." 

70 


"LOLLYBY,  LOLLY,  LOLLYBY"  71 

Then  to   my  harte   sales   I :     "  Oh,  that  thy 

beating 

Colde  be  assuaged  by  some  sweete  voice  re 
peating 

'Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby'; 

That  like  this  lyttel  chylde  I,  too,  ben  sleeping 

With  plaisaunt  phantasies  about  me  creeping, 

To  Molly,  lolly,  lollyby'!" 

Some   time — mayhap   when  curfew   bells   are 

ringing— 
A.    weary    harte    shall    heare    straunge    voices 

singing 

"Lollyby,  lolly,  lollyby"; 
Some  time,  mayhap,  with  Chryst's  love  round 

me  streaming, 

I  shall  be  lulled  into  eternal  dreeming, 
With  "lolly,  lolly,  lollyby." 


LIZZIE   AND   THE   BABY 

I  WONDER  ef  all  wimmin  air 
Like  Lizzie  is  when  we  go  out 
To  theaters  an'  concerts  where 

Is  things  the  papers  talk  about. 
Do  other  wimmin  fret  an'  stew 

Like  they  wuz  bein'  crucified  — 
Frettin'  a  show  or  concert  through, 
With  wonderin'  ef  the  baby  cried  ? 

Now  "Lizzie  knows  that  gran'ma  's  there 
To  see  that  everything  is  right, 

Yet  Lizzie  thinks  that  gran'ma's  care 
Ain't  good  enuff  f r  baby,  quite ; 

Yet  what  am  I  to  answer  when 
She  kind  uv  fidgets  at  my  side, 

An'  asks  me  every  now  and  then: 

"  I  wonder  if  the  baby  cried  ?  " 


LIZZIE    AND    THE    BABY  73 

Seems  like  she  seen  two  little  eyes 

A-pinin'  fr  their  mother's  smile — 
Seems  like  she  heern  the  pleadin'  cries 

Uv  one  she  thinks  uv  all  the  while; 
An'  so  she  's  sorry  that  she  come, 

An'  though  she  allus  tries  to  hide 
The  truth,  she  'd  ruther  stay  to  hum 

Than  wonder  ef  the  baby  cried. 

Yes,  wimmin  folks  is  all  alike  — 

By  Lizzie  you  kin  jedge  the  rest; 
There  never  wuz  a  little  tyke, 

But  that  his  mother  loved  him  best. 
And  nex'  to  bein'  what  I  be  — 

The  husband  uv  my  gentle  bride — 
I  'd  wisht  I  wuz  that  croodlin'  wee, 

With  Lizzie  wonderin'  ef  I  cried. 


AT   THE   DOOR 

I  THOUGHT  myself,  indeed,  secure 
So  fast  the  door,  so  firm  the  lock; 
But,  lo !  he  toddling  comes  to  lure 
My  parent  ear  with  timorous  knock. 

My  heart  were  stone  could  it  withstand 

The  sweetness  of  my  baby's  plea, — 
That  timorous,  baby  knocking  and 
"Please  let  me  in, — it  's  only  me." 

I  threw  aside  the  unfinished  book, 
Regardless  of  its  tempting  charms, 

And,  opening  wide  the  door,  I  took 
My  laughing  darling  in  my  arms. 

74 


AT    THE    DOOR  75 

Who  knows  but  in  Eternity, 

I,  like  a  truant  child,  shall  wait 

The  glories  of  a  life  to  be, 

Beyond  the  Heavenly  Father's  gate  ? 

And  will  that  Heavenly  Father  heed 

The  truant's  supplicating  cry, 
As  at  the  outer  door  I  plead, 
«  T  is  I,  O  Father !  only  I  ?  " 


A  CHILD  was  singing  at  his  play — 
I  heard  the  song,  and  paused  to  hear; 
His  mother  moaning,  groaning  lay, 
And,  lo!    a  specter  stood  anear! 

The  child  shook  sunlight  from  his  hair, 
And  caroled  gaily  all  day  long — 

Aye,  with  that  specter  gloating  there, 
The  innocent  made  mirth  and  song! 

How  like  to  harvest  fruit  wert  thou, 
O  sorrow,  in  that  dismal  room — 

God  ladeth  not  the  tender  bough 

Save  with  the  joy  of  bud  and  bloom ! 


HI-SPY 

STRANGE  that  the  city  thoroughfare, 
Noisy  and  bustling  all  the  day, 
Should  with  the  night  renounce  its  care 
And  lend  itself  to  children's  play! 

Oh,  girls  are  girls,  and  boys  are  boys, 
And  have  been  so  since  Abel's  birth, 

And  shall  be  so  till  dolls  and  toys 

Are  with  the  children  swept  from  earth. 

The  selfsame  sport  that  crowns  the  day 
Of  many  a  Syrian  shepherd's  son, 

Beguiles  the  little  lads  at  play 
By  night  in  stately  Babylon. 

I  hear  their  voices  in  the  street, 

Yet  't  is  so  different  now  from  then! 

Come,  brother!  from  your  winding-sheet, 
And  let  us  two  be  boys  again! 

77 


LITTLE    BOY   BLUE 

THE  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 
But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  molds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new, 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 
Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 
"  And  don't  you  make  any  noise ! " 
So,  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed, 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys ; 
And,  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue  — 
Oh!  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true! 


LITTLE  BOY   BLUfc  79 

Aye,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place  — 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face; 
And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  the  long  years 
through 

In  the  dust  of  that  little  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


FATHER'S   LETTER 

I'M  going  to  write  a  letter  to  our  oldest  boy 
who  went 
Out  West  last  spring  to  practise  law  and  run 

for  president; 
I  '11  tell  him  all  the  gossip  I  guess  he  'd  like 

to  hear, 
For  he  has  n't  seen  the  home-folks  for  going 

on  a  year! 
Most  generally  it  's  Marthy  does  the  writing, 

but  as  she 
Is  suffering  with  a  felon,  why,  the  job  devolves 

on  me  — 
So,  when  the  supper  things  are  done  and  put 

away  to-night, 
I  '11  draw  my  boots   and   shed   my  coat  and 

settle  down  to  write. 
80 


FATHER'S  LETTER  81 

I  '11  tell  him  crops  are  looking  up,  with  pros 
pects  big  for  corn, 

That,  fooling  with  the  barnyard  gate,  the  off- 
ox  hurt  his  horn; 

That  the  Templar  lodge  is  doing  well — Tim 
Bennett  joined  last  week 

When  the  prohibition  candidate  for  Congress 
came  to  speak; 

That  the  old  gray  woodchuck  's  living  still 
down  in  the  pasture-lot, 

A-wondering  what  's  become  of  little  William, 
like  as  not! 

Oh,  yes,  there  's  lots  of  pleasant  things  and 
no  bad  news  to  tell, 

Except  that  old  Bill  Graves  was  sick,  but  now 
he  's  up  and  well. 

Cy  Cooper  says — (but  I  '11  not  pass  my  word 

that  it  is  so, 
For  Cy  he  is  some  punkins  on  spinning  yarns, 

you  know)  — 
He  says  that,   since   the   freshet,  the   pickerel 

are  so  thick 


8a  FATHER'S    LETTER 

In  Baker's  pond  you  can  wade  in  and  kill 
'em  with  a  stick! 

The  Hubbard  girls  are  teaching  school,  and 
Widow  Cutler's  Bill 

Has  taken  Eli  Baxter's  place  in  Luther  East 
man's  mill; 

Old  Deacon  Skinner's  dog  licked  Deacon 
Howard's  dog  last  week, 

And  now  there  are  two  lambkins  in  one  flock 
that  will  not  speak. 

The   yellow   rooster    froze    his    feet,    a-wadin' 

through  the  snow, 
And   now  he   leans  agin   the   fence  when   he 

starts  in  to  crow; 
The   chestnut  colt  that  was  so  skittish  when 

he  went  away — 
I  've  broke  him  to  the  sulky  and  I  drive  him 

every  day! 
We  Ve  got  pink  window  curtains  for  the  front 

spare-room  up-stairs, 
And  Lizzie  's  made  new  covers  for  the  parlor 

lounge  and  chairs; 


FATHER'S    LETTER  83 

We  've  roofed  the  barn  and  braced  the  elm 
that  has  the  hangbird's  nest  — 

Oh,  there  's  been  lots  of  changes  since  our 
William  went  out  West! 


Old  Uncle  Enos  Packard  is  getting  mighty 
gay— 

He  gave  Miss  Susan  Birchard  a  peach  the 
other  day! 

His  late  lamented  Sarah  hain't  been  buried 
quite  a  year, 

So  his  purring  'round  Miss  Susan  causes  criti 
cism  here. 

At  the  last  donation  party,  the  minister  opined 

That,  if  he  'd  half  suspicioned  what  was  com 
ing,  he  'd  resigned; 

For,  though  they  brought  him  slippers  like  he 
was  a  centipede, 

His  pantry  was  depleted  by  the  consequential 
feed! 

These  are  the  things  I  '11  write  him — our  boy 
that  's  in  the  West; 


84  FATHER'S   LETTER 

And    I  '11    tell    him   how    we   miss   him — his 

mother  and  the  rest; 
Why,  we  never  have  an  apple-pie  that  mother 

does  n't  say: 
"He  liked  it  so — I   wish  that   he  could  have 

a  piece  to-day !  " 
I  '11  tell  him  we  are  prospering,  and  hope  he 

is  the  same — 
That  we  hope  he  '11  have   no   trouble  getting 

on  to  wealth  and  fame; 
And  just  before  I  write  "  good-by  from  father 

and  the  rest," 
I  '11    say   that  "mother  sends  her  love,"  and 

that  will  please  him  best. 

For  when  /  went  away  from  home,  the  weekly 

news  I  heard 
Was  nothing  to  the  tenderness  I  found  in  that 

one  word — 
The  sacred  name  of  mother — why,  even  now 

as  then, 
The  thought  brings  back  the  saintly  face,  the 

gracious  love  again; 


FATHER'S    LETTER  85 

And  in  my  bosom  seems  to  come  a  peace  that 

is  divine, 
As  if  an  angel  spirit  communed  a  while  with 

mine; 
And  one  man's  heart  is  strengthened   by  the 

message  from  above, 
.-\nd  earth  seems  nearer  heaven  when  "  mother 

sends  her  love." 


JEWISH    LULLABY 

MY  harp  is  on  the  willow-tree, 
Else  would  I  sing,  O  love,  to  thee 
A  song  of  long-ago  — 
Perchance  the  song  that  Miriam  sung 
Ere  yet  Judea's  heart  was  wrung 
By  centuries  of  woe. 

I  ate  my  crust  in  tears  to-day, 

As  scourged  I  went  upon  my  way — 

And  yet  my  darling  smiled; 
Aye,  beating  at  my  breast,  he  laughed — 
My  anguish  curdled  not  the  draught — 

'T  was  sweet  with  love,  my  child! 

86 


JEWISH    LULLABY  £7 

The  shadow  of  the  centuries  lies 
Deep  in  thy  dark  and  mournful  eye 

But,  hush!  and  close  them  now', 
And  in  the  dreams  that  thou  shalt  drran? 
The  light  of  other  days  shall  seem 

To  glorify  thy  brow! 

Our  harp  is  on  the  willow- tree — 
I  have  no  song  to  sing  to  thee, 

As  shadows  round  us  roll; 
But,  hush  and  sleep,  and  thou  shalt  hear 
Jehovah's  voice  that  speaks  to  cheer 

Judea's  fainting  soul! 


OUR    WHIPPINGS 

COME,   Harvey,  let   us   sit  a  while  and  talk 
about  the  times 
Before  you  went  to  selling  clothes  and   I  to 

peddling  rimes — 
The  days  when  we  were  little  boys,  as  naughty 

little  boys 

As   ever   worried  home-folks  with   their   ever 
lasting  noise! 
Egad !  and,  were  we  so  disposed,  I  '11  venture 

we  could  show 
The   scars   of  wallopings   we   got   some   forty 

years  ago; 
What  wallopings  I  mean  I  think  I  need  not 

specify — 
Mother's  whippings  did  n't  hurt,  but  father's! 

oh,  my ! 

88 


OUR    WHIPPINGS  89 

The  way  that  we  played  hookey  those  many 

years  ago — 
We  'd  rather  give  'most  anything  than  have 

our  children  know! 
The    thousand    naughty    things    we    did,    the 

thousand  fibs  we  told — 
Why,  thinking  of  them   makes  my  presbyte- 

rian  blood  run  cold! 
How   often    Deacon   Sabine   Morse  remarked 

if  we  were  his 
He  'd  tan   our  "  pesky  little  hides   until   the 

blisters  riz ! " 
It  's  many  a  hearty  thrashing  to  that  Deacon 

Morse  we  owe — 
Mother's  whippings  did  n't  count — father's  did, 

though ! 

We  used  to  sneak  off  swimmin'  in  those  care 
less,  boyish  days, 

And  come  back  home  of  evenings  with  our 
necks  and  backs  ablaze; 

How  mother  used  to  wonder  why  our  clothes 
were  full  of  sand, 


90  OUR   WHIPPINGS 

But  father,  having  been  a  boy,  appeared  to 
understand. 

And,  after  tea,  he  'd  beckon  us  to  join  him 
in  the  shed 

Where  he  'd  proceed  to  tinge  our  backs  a 
deeper,  darker  red; 

Say  what  we  will  of  mother's,  there  is  none 
will  controvert 

The  proposition  that  our  father's  lickings  al 
ways  hurt! 

For  mother  was   by  nature  so   forgiving  and 

so  mild 
That  she  inclined  to  spare  the   rod  although 

she  spoiled  the  child; 
And  when  at  last  in  self-defense  she  had  to 

whip  us,  she 
Appeared  to  feel  those  whippings  a  great  deal 

more  than  we! 
But  how  we  bellowed  and  took  on,  as  if  we  'd 

like  to  die  — 
Poor  mother  really  thought  she  hurt,  and  that 's 

what  made  her  cry! 


OUR    WHIPPINGS  91 

Then  how  we  youngsters  snickered  as  out  the 

door  we  slid, 
For   mother's    whippings    never   hurt,   though 

father's  always  did. 

In  after  years  poor  father  simmered  down  to 
five  feet  four, 

But  in  our  youth  he  seemed  to  us  in  height 
eight  feet  or  more ! 

Oh,  how  we  shivered  when  he  quoth  in  cold, 

suggestive  tone: 

"  I  '11  see  you  in  the  woodshed  after  supper  all 
alone ! " 

Oh,  how  the  legs  and  arms  and  dust  and  trouser 
buttons  flew  — 

What  florid  vocalisms  marked  that  vesper  inter 
view  ! 

Yes,  after  all  this  lapse  of  years,  I  feelingly  assert, 

With  all  respect  to  mother,  it  was  father's  whip 
pings  hurt! 

The  little  boy  experiencing  that  tingling  'neath 

his  vest 
Is  often  loath  to  realize  that  all  is  for  the  best ; 


92  OUR   WHIPPINGS 

Yet,  when  the  boy  gets  older,  he  pictures  with 

delight 
The  bufferings  of  childhood — as  we  do  here 

to-night. 
The  years,  the  gracious  years,  have  smoothed 

and  beautified  the  ways 
That  to  our  little  feet  seemed  all  too  rugged 

in  the  days 
Before  you   went  to   selling  clothes  and  I  to 

peddling  rimes — 
So,  Harvey,  let  us  sit  a  while  and  think  upon 

those  times. 


THE   ARMENIAN    MOTHER 

I  WAS  a  mother,  and  I  weep; 
The  night  is  come — the  day  is  sped — • 
The  night  of  woe  profound,  for,  oh, 
My  little  golden  son  is  dead ! 

The  pretty  rose  that  bloomed  anon 
Upon  my  mother  breast,  they  stole; 

They  let  the  dove  I  nursed  with  love 
Fly  far  away  —  so  sped  my  soul ! 

That  falcon  Death  swooped  down  upon 
My  sweet- voiced  turtle  as  he  sung; 

'T  is  hushed  and  dark  where  soared  the  lark, 
And  so,  and  so  my  heart  was  wrung ! 

93 


94  THE    ARMENIAN    MOTHER 

Before  my  eyes,  they  sent  the  hail 
Upon  my  green  pomegranate-tree — 

Upon  the  bough  where  only  now 
A  rosy  apple  bent  to  me. 

They  shook  my  beauteous  almond-tree, 
Beating  its  glorious  bloom  to  death — 

They  strewed  it  round  upon  the  ground, 
And  mocked  its  fragrant  dying  breath, 

I  was  a  mother,  and  I  weep ; 

I  seek  the  rose  where  nestleth  none-- 
No  more  is  heard  the  singing  bird  — 

I  have  no  little  golden  son! 

So  fall  the  shadows  over  me, 
The  blighted  garden,  lonely  nest. 

Reach  down  in  love,  O  God  above ! 
And  fold  my  darling  to  thy  breast 


HEIGHO,  MY  DEARIE 

A  MOONBEAM  floateth  from  the  skies, 
Whispering :  "  Heigho,  my  dearie ; 
I  would  spin  a  web  before  your  eyes — 
A  beautiful  web  of  silver  light 
Wherein  is  many  a  wondrous  sight 
Of  a  radiant  garden  leagues  away, 
Where  the  softly  tinkling  lilies  sway 
And  the  snow-white  lambkins  are  at  play— 
Heigho,  my  dearie!" 

A  brownie  stealeth  from  the  vine, 

Singing :  "  Heigho,  my  dearie ; 
And  will  you  hear  this  song  of  mine — 
A  song  of  the  land  of  murk  and  mist 
Where  bideth  the  bud  the  dew  hath  kist? 

95 


96  HEIGHO,   MY    DEARIE 

Then  let  the  moonbeam's  web  of  light 
Be  spun  before  thee  silvery  white, 
And  I  shall  sing  the  livelong  night  — 
Heigho,  my  dearie ! " 

The  night  wind  speedeth  from  the  sea, 
Murmuring :  "  Heigho,  my  dearie ; 

I  bring  a  mariner's  prayer  for  thee; 

So  let  the  moonbeam  veil  thine  eyes, 

And  the  brownie  sing  thee  lullabies  — 

But  I  shall  rock  thee  to  and  fro, 

Kissing  the  brow  he  loveth  so. 

And  the  prayer  shall  guard  thy  bed,  I  trow- 
Heigho,  my  dearie!" 


TO   A   USURPER 

AHA!  a  traitor  in  the  camp, 
A  rebel  strangely  bold, — 
A  lisping,  laughing,  toddling  scamp, 
Not  more  than  four  years  old! 

To  think  that  I,  who  Ve  ruled  alone 

So  proudly  in  the  past, 
Should  be  ejected  from  my  throne 

By  my  own  son  at  last ! 

He  trots  his  treason  to  and  fro, 

As  only  babies  can, 
And  says  he  '11  be  his  mamma's  beau 

When  he  's  a  "gweat,  big  man"! 

You  stingy  boy!  you  've  always  had 

A  share  in  mamma's  heart. 
Would  you  begrudge  your  poor  old  dad 

The  tiniest  little  part? 

97 


98  TO   A    USURPER 

That  mamma,  I  regret  to  see, 
Inclines  to  take  your  part, — 

As  if  a  dual  monarchy 

Should  rule  her  gentle  heart ! 

But  when  the  years  of  youth  have  sped. 

The  bearded  man,  I  trow, 
Will  quite  forget  he  ever  said 

He  'd  be  his  mamma's  beau. 

Renounce  your  treason,  little  son, 
Leave  mamma's  heart  to  me; 

For  there  will  come  another  one 
To  claim  your  loyalty. 

And  when  that  other  comes  to  you> 
God  grant  her  love  may  shine 

Through  all  your  life,  as  fair  and  true 
As  mamma's  does  through  mine ! 


THE   BELL-FLOWER   TREE 

WHEN  brother  Bill  and  I  were  boys, 
How  often  in  the  summer  we 
Would  seek  the  shade  your  branches  mader 

O  fair  and  gracious  bell-flower  tree! 
Amid  the  clover  bloom  we  sat 

And  looked  upon  the  Holyoke  range, 
While  Fido  lay  a  space  away, 
Thinking  our  silence  very  strange. 

The  woodchuck  in  the  pasture-lot, 

Beside  his  furtive  hole  elate, 
Heard,  off  beyond  the  pickerel  pond, 

The  redwing-blackbird  chide  her  mate. 
The  bumblebee  went  bustling  round, 

Pursuing  labors  never  done — 
With  drone  and  sting,  the  greedy  thing 

Begrudged  the  sweets  we  lay  upon! 

99 


ioo  THE    BELL-FLOWER    TREE 

Our  eyes  looked  always  at  the  hills  — 

The  Holyoke  hills  that  seemed  to  stand 
Between  us  boys  and  pictured  joys 

Of  conquest  in  a  further  land! 
Ah,  how  we  coveted  the  time 

When  we  should  leave  this  prosy  place 
And  work  our  wills  beyond  those  hills, 

And  meet  creation  face  to  face! 

You  must  have  heard  our  childish  talk — 

Perhaps  our  prattle  gave  you  pain; 
For  then,  old  friend,  you  seemed  to  bend 

Your  kindly  arms  about  us  twain. 
It  might  have  been  the  wind  that  sighed, 

And  yet  I  thought  I  heard  you  say: 
"Seek  not  the  ills  beyond  those  hills  — 

Oh,  stay  with  me,  my  children,  stay ! " 

See,  I  Ve  come  back;  the  boy  you  knew 
Is  wiser,  older,  sadder  grown; 

I  come  once  more,  just  as  of  yore — 
I  come,  but  see !  I  come  alone ! 


THE    BELL-FLOWER    TREE  101 

The  memory  of  a  brother's  love, 
Of  blighted  hopes,  I  bring  with  me, 

And  here  I  lay  my  heart  to-day  — 
A  weary  heart,  O  bell-flower  tree! 

So  let  me  nestle  in  your  shade 

As  though  I  were  a  boy  again, 
And  pray  extend  your  arms,  old  friend. 

And  love  me  as  you  used  to  then. 
Sing  softly  as  you  used  to  sing, 

And  maybe  I  shall  seem  to  be 
A  little  boy  and  feel  the  joy 

Of  thy  repose,  O  bell-flower  tree! 


FAIRY    AND    CHILD 

OH,  listen,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 
To  the  fairy  voices  calling, 
For  the  moon  is  high  in  the  misty  sky 

And  the  honey  dew  is  falling; 
To  the  midnight  feast  in  the  clover  bloom 

The  bluebells  are  a-ringing, 
And  it  's  "  Come  away  to  the  land  of  fay  " 
That  the  katydid  is  singing. 

Oh,  slumber,  little  Dear-My-Soul, 

And  hand  in  hand  we  '11  wander — 
Hand  in  hand  to  the  beautiful  land 

Of  Balow,  away  off  yonder; 
Or  we  '11  sail  along  in  a  lily  leaf 

Into  the  white  moon's  halo  — 
Over  a  stream  of  mist  and  dream 

Into  the  land  of  Balow. 


FAIRY    AND    CHILD  103 

Or,  you  shall  have  two  beautiful  wings — 

Two  gossamer  wings  and  airy, 
And  all  the  while  shall  the  old  moon  smile 

And  think  you  a  little  fairy; 
And  you  shall  dance  in  the  velvet  sky, 

And  the  silvery  stars  shall  twinkle 
And  dream  sweet  dreams  as  over  their  beams 

Your  footfalls  softly  tinkle. 


THE   GRANDSIRE 

r  LOVED  him  so;  his  voice  had  grown 
i    Into  my  heart,  and  now  to  hear 
The  pretty  song  he  had  sung  so  long 

Die  on  the  lips  to  me  so  dear! 
He  a  child  with  golden  curls, 

And  I  with  head  as  white  as  snow — 
\  knelt  down  there  and  made  this  pray'r: 
"God,  let  me  be  the  first  to  go!" 

How  often  I  recall  it  now: 

My  darling  tossing  on  his  bed, 
I  sitting  there  in  mute  despair, 

Smoothing  the  curls  that  crowned  his  head. 
They  did  not  speak  to  me  of  death  — 

A  feeling  here  had  told  me  so; 
What  could  I  say  or  do  but  pray 

That  I  might  be  the  first  to  go? 


THE    GRANDSIRE  105 

Yet,  thinking  of  him  standing  there 

Out  yonder  as  the  years  go  by, 
Waiting  for  me  to  come,  I  see 

'T  was  better  he  should  wait,  not  I. 
For  when  I  walk  the  vale  of  death, 

Above  the  wail  of  Jordan's  flow 
Shall  rise  a  song  that  shall  make  me  strong — 

The  call  of  the  child  that  was  first  to  go. 


HUSHABY,    SWEET    MY    OWN 

FAIR  is  the  castle  up  on  the  hill — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 
The  night  is  fair,  and  the  waves  are  still. 
And  the  wind  is  singing  to  you  and  to  me 
In  this  lowly  home  beside  the  sea — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own  ! 

On  yonder  hill  is  store  of  wealth  — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own ! 
And  revelers  drink  to  a  little  one's  health; 
But  you  and  I  bide  night  and  day 
For  the  other  love  that  has  sailed  away — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own ! 

See  not,  dear  eyes,  the  forms  that  creep 

Ghostlike,  O  my  own! 
Out  of  the  mists  of  the  murmuring  deep; 
Oh,  see  them  not  and  make  no  cry 
Till  the  angels  of  death  have  passed  us  by- 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own! 

106 


HUSHABY,  SWEET    MY    OWN  107 

Ah,  little  they  reck  of  you  and  me  — 

Hushaby,  sweet  my  own ! 
In  our  lonely  home  beside  the  sea; 
They  seek  the  castle  up  on  the  hill, 
And  there  they  will  do  their  ghostly  will  — 

Hushaby,  O  my  own! 

Here  by  the  sea  a  mother  croons 
"  Hushaby,  sweet  my  own !  " 
In  yonder  castle  a  mother  swoons 
While  the  angels  go  down  to  the  misty  deep 
Bearing  a  little  one  fast  asleep  — 
Hushaby,  sweet  my  own ! 


CHILD  AND   MOTHER 

OMOTHER-MY-LOVE,   if  you  '11  give  me  your 
hand, 

And  go  where  I  ask  you  to  wander, 
I  will  lead  you  away  to  a  beautiful  land — 

The  Dreamland  that  's  waiting  out  yonder. 

We  '11  walk  in  a  sweet-posie  garden  out  there 

Where  moonlight  and  starlight  are  streaming 

And  the  flowers  and  the  birds  are  filling  the  air 

With  the  fragrance  and  music  of  dreaming. 

There  '11  be  no  little  tired-out  boy  to  undress, 

No  questions  or  cares  to  perplex  you; 
There  '11  be  no  little  bruises  or  bumpfe  to  caress, 

Nor  patching  of  stockings  to  vex  you. 
For  I  '11  rock  you  away  on  a  silver-dew  stream, 

And  sing  you  asleep  when  you  're  weary, 
And  no  one  shall  know  of  our  beautiful  dream 

But  you  and  your  own  little  dearie. 

108 


CHILD   AND    MOTHER  109 

And  when  I  am  tired  I  '11  nestle  my  head 

In  the  bosom  that  's  soothed  me  so  often, 
And    the    wide-awake    stars    shall    sing  in  my 

stead 

A  song  which  our  dreaming  shall  soften. 
So,   Mother-My-Love,  let   me   take  your  dear 

hand, 

And  away  through  the  starlight  we  '11  wan 
der — 

Away  through  the  mist  to  the  beautiful  land — 
The  Dreamland  that  's  waiting  out  yonder! 


MEDIEVAL   EVENTIDE   SONG 

COME   hither,  lyttel  childe,  and  lie  upon  my 
breast  to-night, 
For  yonder  fares  an  angell  yclad  in  raimaunt 

white, 
And  yonder  sings   ye  angell  as  onely  angells 

may, 

And  his  songe  ben  of  a  garden  that  bloometh 
farre  awaye. 

To    them    that  have  no   lyttel    childe   Godde 

sometimes  sendeth  down 
A  lyttel  childe  that  ben  a  lyttel  angell  of  his 

owne; 
And  if  so  bee  they  love   that  childe,  he  will- 

eth  it  to  staye, 
But  elsewise,  in  his  mercie,  he  taketh  it  awaye. 


MEDIEVAL   EVENTIDE    SONG  in 

And  sometimes,   though    they  love  it,  Godde 

yearneth  for  ye  childe, 
And  sendeth    angells  singing,  whereby  it  ben 

beguiled; 
They    fold    their   arms   about    ye   lamb    that 

croodleth  at  his  play, 
And  beare  him   to  ye  garden  that  bloometh 

farre  awaye. 

I  wolde  not  lose  ye  lyttel  lamb  that  Godde 
hath  lent  to  me  ; 

If  I  colde  sing  that  angell  songe,  how  joy- 
some  I  sholde  be ! 

For,  with  mine  arms  about  him,  and  my  mu- 
sick  in  his  eare, 

What  angell  songe  of  paradize  soever  sholde  I 
feare  ? 

Soe  come,  my  lyttel  childe,  and  lie  upon  my 

breast  to-night, 
For  yonder  fares  an  angell  yclad  in  raimaunt 

white, 


112  MEDIEVAL   EVENTIDE    SONG 

And  yonder  sings  that  angell,  as  onely  angells 

may, 
And  his  songe  ben  of  a  garden  that  bloom- 

eth  farre  awaye. 


ARMENIAN   LULLABY 

IF  thou  wilt  shut  thy  drowsy  eyes, 
My  mulberry  one,  my  golden  sun! 
The  rose  shall  sing  thee  lullabies, 

My  pretty  cosset  lambkin ! 
And  thou  shalt  swing  in  an  almond-tree, 
With  a  flood  of  moonbeams  rocking  thee- 
A  silver  boat  in  a  golden  sea, 

My  velvet  love,  my  nestling  dove, 
My  own  pomegranate  blossom ! 

The  stork  shall  guard  thee  passing  well 
All  night,  my  sweet!  my  dimple-feet! 

And  bring  thee  myrrh  and  asphodel, 
My  gentle  rain-of-springtime ! 
113 


H4  ARMENIAN    LULLABY 

And  for  thy  slumbrous  play  shall  twine 
The  diamond  stars  with  an  emerald  vine 
To  trail  in  the  waves  of  ruby  wine, 
My  myrtle  bloom,  my  heart's  perfume, 
My  little  chirping  sparrow ! 

And  when  the  morn  wakes  up  to  see 

My  apple  bright,  my  soul's  delight! 

The  partridge  shall  come  calling  thee, 

My  jar  of  milk-and-honey  ! 
Yes,  thou  shalt  know  what  mystery  lies 
In  the  amethyst  deep  of  the  curtained  skies, 
If  thou  wilt  fold  thy  onyx  eyes, 
You  wakeful  one,  you  naughty  son, 
You  cooing  little  turtle! 


CHRISTMAS   TREASURES 

I    COUNT  my  treasures  o'er  with  care, — 
The  little  toy  my  darling  knew, 
A  little  sock  of  faded  hue, 
A  little  lock  of  golden  hair. 

Long  years  ago  this  holy  time, 
My  little  one — my  all  to  me  — 
Sat  robed  in  white  upon  my  knee, 

And  heard  the  merry  Christmas  chime. 

"  Tell  me,  my  little  golden-head, 

If  Santa  Claus  should  come  to-night, 
What  shall  he  bring  my  baby  bright,- 
What  treasure  for  my  boy?"  I  said. 


ii6  CHRISTMAS   TREASURES 

And  then  he  named  this  little  toy, 
While  in  his  round  and  mournful  eyes 
There  came  a  look  of  sweet  surprise, 

That  spake  his  quiet,  trustful  joy. 

And  as  he  lisped  his  evening  prayer 
He  asked  the  boon  with  childish  grace; 
Then,  toddling  to  the  chimney-place, 

He  hung  this  little  stocking  there. 

That  night,  while  lengthening  shadows  crept, 
I  saw  the  white-winged  angels  come 
With  singing  to  our  lowly  home 

And  kiss  my  darling  as  he  slept. 

They  must  have  heard  his  little  prayer, 
For  in  the  morn,  with  rapturous  face, 
He  toddled  to  the  chimney-place, 

And  found  this  little  treasure  there. 

They  came  again  one  Christmas-tide, — 
That  angel  host,  so  fair  and  white; 
And,  singing  all  that  glorious  night, 

They  lured  my  darling  from  my  side. 


CHRISTMAS    TREASURES  117 

A  little  sock,  a  little  toy, 
A  little  lock  of  golden  hair, 
The  Christmas  music  on  the  air, 

A  watching  for  my  baby  boy ! 

But  if  again  that  angel  train 

And  golden-head  come  back  for  me, 

To  bear  me  tc   Eternity. 
lYly  watcmng  wil.    not  fce  ij.    >ain. 


OH,    LITTLE    CHII  D 

HUSH,  little  one,  and  fold  your  hands — 
The  sun  hath  set,  the  moon  is  high; 
The  sea  is  singing  to  the  sands, 

And  wakeful  posies  are  beguiled 
By  many  a  fairy  lullaby — 

Hush,  little  child — my  little  child! 

Dream,  little  one,  and  in  your  dreams 

Float  upward  from  this  lowly  place — 
Float  out  on  mellow,  misty  streams 

To  lands  where  bideth  Mary  mild, 
And  let  her  kiss  thy  little  face, 
You  little  child — my  little  child! 


OH,  LITTLE    CHILD  119 

Sleep,  little  one,  and  take  thy  rest — 

With  angels  bending  over  thee, 
Sleep  sweetly  on  that  Father's  breast 

Whom  our  dear  Christ  hath  reconciled  — 
But  stay  not  there — come  back  to  me, 
Oh,  little  child — my  little  child! 


GANDERFEATHER'S    GIFT 

I  WAS  just  a  little  thing 
When  a  fairy  came  and  kissed  me; 
Floating   in   upon   the   light 
Of  a  haunted  summer  night, 
Lo,  the  fairies  came  to  sing 
Pretty  slumber  songs  and  bring 

Certain  boons  that  else  had  missed  me. 
From  a  dream  I  turned  to  see 
What  those  strangers  brought  for  me, 
When  that  fairy  up  and  kissed  me — 
Here,  upon  this  cheek,  he  kissed  me ! 

Simmerdew  was  there,  but  she 
Did  not  like  me  altogether; 
Daisybright  and  Turtledove, 
Pilfercurds  and  Honeylove, 
Thistleblow  and  Amberglee 
On  that  gleaming,  ghostly  sea 


GANDERFEATHER'S    GIFT  121 

Floated  from  the  misty  heather, 
And  around  my  trundle-bed 
Frisked,  and  looked,  and  whispering  said— 

Solemnlike  and  all  together: 
"You  shall  kiss  him,  Ganderfeather ! " 

Ganderfeather  kissed  me  then — 

Ganderfeather,  quaint  and  merry] 
No  attenuate  sprite  was  he, 
—  But  as  buxom  as  could  be;  — 
Kissed  me  twice,  and  once  again, 
And  the  others  shouted  when 

On  my  cheek  uprose  a  berry 
Somewhat  like  a  mole,  mayhap, 
But  the  kiss-mark  of  that  chap 

Ganderfeather,  passing  merry — 

Humorsome,  but  kindly,  very  ! 

I  was  just  a  tiny  thing 

When  the  prankish  Ganderfeather 
Brought  this  curious  gift  to  me 
With  his  fairy  kisses  three; 
Yet  with  honest  pride  I  sing 


GANDERFEATHER'S   GIFT 

That  same  gift  he  chose  to  bring 
Out  of  yonder  haunted  heather. 
Other  charms  and  friendships  fly — 
Constant  friends  this  mole  and  I, 
Who  have  been  so  long  together. 
Thank  you,  little  Ganderfeather ! 


BAMBINO 

T~\AMBINO  in  his  cradle  slept; 
ID  And  by  his  side  his  grandam  grim 
Bent  down  and  smiled  upon  the  child, 
And  sung  this  lullaby  to  him, — 
This  "ninna  and  anninia": 

"  When  thou  art  older,  thou  shalt  mind 
To  traverse  countries  far  and  wide, 
And  thou  shalt  go  where  roses  blow 
And  balmy  waters  singing  glide — 
So  ninna  and  annima! 

"And  thou  shalt  wear,  trimmed  up  in  points, 

A  famous  jacket  edged  in  red, 
And,  more  than  that,  a  peaked  hat, 
All  decked  in  gold,  upon  thy  head  — 
Ah!  ninna  and  anninia! 


124  BAMBINO 

"Then  shalt  thou  carry  gun  and  knife, 

Nor  shall  the  soldiers  bully  thee; 
Perchance,  beset  by  wrong  or  debt, 
A  mighty  bandit  thou  shalt  be  — 
So  ninna  and  annima! 

"  No  woman  yet  of  our  proud  race 

Lived  to  her  fourteenth  year  unwed; 
The  brazen  churl  that  eyed  a  girl 

Bought  her  the  ring  or  paid  his  head  ^- 
So  ninna  and  anninia! 

"  But  once  came  spies  (I  know  the  thieves !) 

And  brought  disaster  to  our  race; 
God  heard  us  when  our  fifteen  men 

Were  hanged  within  the  market-place — 
But  ninna  and  anninia! 

"  Good  men  they  were,  my  babe,  and  true, — . 

Right  worthy  fellows  all,  and  strong; 
Live  thou  and  be  for  them  and  me 
Avenger  of  that  deadly  wrong — 
So  ninna  and  anninia!" 


LITTLE   HOMER'S   SLATE 

AFTER  dear  old  grandma  died, 
Hunting  through  an  oaken  chest 
In  the  attic,  we  espied 

What  repaid  our  childish  quest; 
'T  was  a  homely  little  slate, 
Seemingly  of  ancient  date. 

On  its  quaint  and  battered  face 
Was  the  picture  of  a  cart, 

Drawn  with  all  that  awkward  grace 
Which  betokens  childish  art; 

But  what  meant  this  legend,  pray: 
"  Homer  drew  this  yesterday "  ? 


LITTLE    HOMER'S   SLATE 

Mother  recollected  then 

What  the  years  were  fain  to  hide- 
She  was  but  a  baby  when 

Little  Homer  lived  and  died; 
Forty  years,  so  mother  said, 
Little  Homer  had  been  dead. 

This  one  secret  through  those  years 
Grandma  kept  from  all  apart, 

Hallowed  by  her  lonely  tears 
And  the  breaking  of  her  heart; 

While  each  year  that  sped  away 

Seemed  to  her  but  yesterday. 

So  the  homely  little  slate 

Grandma's  baby's  fingers  pressed. 
To  a  memory  consecrate, 

Lieth  in  the  oaken  chest, 
Where,  unwilling  we  should  know, 
Grandma  put  it,  years  ago. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000041408   6 


